


Sleet and Sun

by Grey_Amethyst



Category: RWBY
Genre: First Kiss, First Relationship, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Minor Character Death, Shock Stage of Grief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 14:05:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17326400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grey_Amethyst/pseuds/Grey_Amethyst
Summary: Whitley meets Oscar after his parents are killed. Being surrounded by empty sympathy and his sister's scorn is less unbearable when there's someone to share the time with.





	Sleet and Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Violence warnings are mainly for the first section of this fic. 
> 
> I think I wrote this on a whim either after Volume 4 or during Volume 5; I recently rediscovered it, and hey, there's only a handful of fics for this pair, so...why not?

It’s more of a surprise when Father takes out his dust-infused hunting rifle and tells Whitley to leave than when Klein burst into his office to shout that the mansion being attacked.

Whitley freezes. Father, the pinnacle of composure, everything Whitley remembers needing to be since his first memories stuck, arms the rifle in seconds. He never knew Father could shoot.

Father starts shouting noise that don’t become words until Klein seizes his arm and takes off with him.

“Run, damn you, run!”

He could’ve done something. Isn’t it possible to unlock a Semblance under moments of great stress?

But Whitley is best at doing what he is told.

His lungs are burning, legs aching, when the door before them splinters and cracks. Klein, face red and dripping with sweat, pushes Whitley into an impression behind a tapestry. Whitley presses himself flat against the furthest wall of the enclave and keeps still, even when he hears the door broken down.

Even when he hears a blade drawn and Klein gurgle to death.

They must have heard his heartbeat, they must have, because the faunus slices through the fabric and gathers Whitley’s vest in his fist, then throws him with all the care one affords a bag of ice.

Whitley’s back skids on Klein’s blood. His hair becomes sticky and wet. Dazed from the impact, he rolls to the side and sees Klein’s body, face down, on a background of armed humans going down the hall.

The faunus comes back into his vision. The sword he yields over his shoulder is flecked with blood. His mask hides any expression that might lay under the disgusted curl of his lips.

Whitley isn’t sure when he starts crying, just that the tears blur his vision and his own wet gasps are blocking out what the faunus says, and Whitley can barely breathe by the time the faunus brings his sword down.

One of the humans, a mountain of a man with dust lined across his massive arms, grasps the blade. Blood spills between his fingers. “He’s a child,” the man says above Whitley’s sobs.

“…Hazel,” the faunus says, “you would deny me the right to justice? This one’s the heir to a legacy of oppression to my people—”

“He’s a child,” this man, Hazel, repeats. “He hasn’t unlocked his Semblance yet. I doubt he’s even stepped foot in one of the academies. The sins he bears are not ones he has chosen.”

“Look at him,” another human adds. This one has grey hair and unhappiness etched in his eyes. “He’s nobody special.”

The faunus looks at them. When Hazel releases his blade, the faunus sheathes it promptly. “Five minutes,” he says, not even looking at Whitley. “If I ever see you again, they won’t be able to stop me.”

“Say hello to your sister for us,” the green-haired girl says, but Whitley is slipping as he hurries to his feet, hands catching himself on the bloodied floors, and he doesn’t look back.

He runs, nose dripping, face burning. And he plans. The hangar may have been the means by which they broke in. Anywhere outside was also volatile. Downstairs, then. The catacombs Klein and Weiss thought he didn’t know about.

The mansion was the safest place, until it wasn’t, and Whitley ran and ran until he reached an exit, snow lifting from the ground and billowing about him, cooling the fire in his limbs.

Whitley kneels down. Holds his head in his hands. Gasps and wheezes until his lungs don’t burn as much and then begins laughing, wiping at his eyes, falling into the snow and looking up at the blue, blue skies.

Dishonored by animals and orphaned, Whitley Schnee threads his walls around the loneliness he knows so well and stands.

To the south is an expansion of the capital. The sun, overhead, is nearing its descent. He walks.

**·**

He is brought to a hospital. They prod and pull at him, and Whitley shoves at them uselessly, demanding his space. He notices his hands are shaking before he realizes every piece of clothing he has on is flaking with dried blood. Then he sees how his skin is tinted blue.

A room with bowls of fire elemental dust. Whitley stares at the white walls and smells the sterile scent and knows he will hate hospitals forever just as he knows he will never, ever forget their faces, the people who took his old life.

He almost throws a tantrum when the nurses try having him change his clothes. Later, in the shower, he sits on the tiled floor and rubbed at the fresh and lingering bruises scattered across his body as if he could wash them, too, off.

They all look at him. The heir stripped of his lineage, his dignity. They never found the bodies at the Schnee manor. It’s easier to tell himself that Father was still alive.

It’s harder to agree to be flown to Mistral, where they say his eldest sister will take him in.

It’s harder to say he thought his sister would protect him, but it is easier than everyone looking at him like some orphan boy. Like he was found ravaged in a village instead of emerging from a snowstorm.

None of it matters. News of an imminent blizzard that will obscure the sky come in not long after the plane took flight. They touch ground in a nearby city.

It took half a day for the Grim to come, and with them, Huntsmen.

After it was over and done with, Whitley looked at his second eldest sister and smiled.

**·**

The silver-eyed girl’s uncle has them stay in a snowy cabin in the woods, atop an untapped vein of ice dust. The red-haired commoner girl proclaims her distaste, asks Weiss “How did you even live so long in Atlas?” and dear sister Weiss glares and motions to Whitley beside her. She probably meant for it to be inconspicuous. Whitley looks at all their unnerved stares and drinks in their discomfort.

A boy with long, black hair interrupts with questions about their plan.

“The only plan for _you all_ is to stay put until it’s safe,” the uncle, Qrow, replies.

In the immediate rush of conversation, Whitley tunes out. He is good at picking pertinent information from meaningless words. It was like that in the capital as well, all that empty consolation about his father, but Whitley’s heart screamed that he was alive, they didn’t find the body, damn them, he wasn’t dead until they proved it.

Atlas Academy has been attacked. They must wait here for Ironwood, who has information about something vital for their mission.

He feels a hand on his arm. Whitley swats it away without looking.

“Sorry,” comes from a slightly larger distance. Whitley looks and sees a boy, shorter than him but built sturdier, tan skin, big hazel eyes, rosy, freckled cheeks.

It’s the kind of face Whitley would linger on in ballrooms and reception areas, the kind that would bloat his insides with irritation, another distraction from his ambitions.

“Uh, I’m Oscar. I’m…kinda new here too, I guess.”

Whitley glowers. Arrogance is a response he wears so often it felt appropriate. He doesn’t know what this boy wants, anyway. “Ah. I didn’t realize the prestiged Huntsmen were taking street urchins among their ranks.”

Oscar blinks. “I’m a farmer.”

“I can see that.”

Those eyes go unfocused for a moment, his mouth twisting into a grimace, but it took him a few seconds to reply; in every one, Whitley’s eyebrows drew higher, his smirk wider. “Look, I’m sorry about your parents, but that doesn’t give you an excuse to be—”

“You two.” Qrow. He slaps a hand to the back of Oscar’s shoulders, a little too familiar. Whitley watched warily. “There’s a small bedroom upstairs. Since neither of you are fully trained and can’t hold watch, you get it.”

Whitley frowned. “You said _small_. Then there’s a big one?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

Qrow’s dismissal is familiar, an echo of a tone he’s used to hearing by now.

Whitley doesn’t protest. Perhaps seeing his maturity, Oscar didn’t either.

They unpacked in relative silence. Whitley set the wool blanket a nurse packed for him on the top bunk.

“I don’t like you,” Oscar mumbled.

“Am I supposed to be hurt?”

“You _are_ hurt. And I get you’re in shock, but—”

“Shock about _what_? That your supposed _good guys_ are supposed to be running after objects and humans whose location is unknown?”

Oscar’s eyes widen. Whitley may not have been watching their facial expressions, but he heard enough. Years of experience among the bureaucracy told him that much.

“My only concern is regaining control of my father’s company. Nothing more, nothing else.”

“Glad to see you care about something.”

“Your sarcasm is lacking. Like you’re compensating for something. Speaking of…” He approaches Oscar’s discarded bag and seizes the hilt of some kind of cane protruding from it.

Oscar’s grip is like a vice on his wrist. Whitley flinches, tries pulling away, then pushing at Oscar. But he sees something, a flash in Oscar’s eyes that isn’t him, a ferocity that feels more than human.

Whitley stills.

“That isn’t a toy.” Something is off about his voice, too. A few seconds later and Oscar’s eyes go normal, his grip relaxes, and Whitley snaps away from him, back to his own bags.

He shuffles though the clothes he was given listlessly. He doesn’t remember wearing anything other than a dress shirt and slacks since he was a child, but this is all they could give him at the hospital. He doesn’t even have his lien card.

He dimly notes that his face is burning. He tugs off his sweater and folded it neatly on the little dresser beside the bunk bed in this cramped room.

“…Those look like they hurt.”

“ _What_ are you—?”

He realizes.

Whitley cups a hand over his bicep, the hand-shaped bruise there. He’ll have to find bandages, maybe, or just wear a sweater everywhere.

Oscar’s gaze softens. “Cinder’s group.”

Ah. How did he not think of that? Whitley nods.

Perhaps taking his alarm for fear, Oscar attempts a smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes, not even close. “You’re safe, now, okay? Qrow and the others are strong. They’ve been teaching me how to fight.”

“I’m not interested in…in being one of _them_.”

“A _prestiged huntsman_?” Oscar echoes, smirking.

“Someone convinced they’re not being used as a tool for those greater and safer than them.”

Oscar’s shoulders sag. Whitley has no idea what he expected.

He lays in bed that night thinking of the country he left behind. He thinks about Father, and Mother, and the company, and Winter and Weiss.

The next morning, sleet beats down hard on the cabin walls.

**·**

The Huntsmen are quick to drop their sympathetic façade with time.                          

Most of them, anyway. Ren, the black-haired one, usually sits in one of the empty seats next to him during meals. Occasionally he will slip Whitley his fruit. Whitley assumed he was after something until Ren promised him they’d get him back home, that he wasn’t on his own because they’d protect him. He laughed in Ren’s face, of course, but Ren didn’t look hurt, just pitying.

The others afford him no such kindness. Jaune Arc, the war hero’s grandson, tried for kindness, but violence shocked through his eyes when Whitley questioned his loyalty to his heritage, considering that shield bears another family’s crest. Nora, the red-haired commoner girl, tended to avoid him except for when he refused to eat some of the slop they served him. She would huff and leave the room with her plate, then.

Ruby, the girl with the silver eyes, tried hugging him once. He panicked when he couldn’t break away easily and called her a bitch. Weiss said he was just like their father, that time.

Dear sister hasn’t changed. She always looked at him with such disdain.

Whitley grins endlessly at her. He still won. He’s still the heir.

Qrow is the only one to never treat him like some damned victim. He’ll hand off a bucket and mop to him with the intensity of unsheathing a sword and ask, mockingly, if he had ever used them before. He called him _brat_ with neither venom nor fondness.

If he didn’t reek of alcohol, Whitley probably would’ve liked him.

Instead he is stuck by circumstance with Oscar. They work in silence most of the time, washing the dusty linens, fixing leaks in the ceiling, except when Whitley has something clever to say. Oscar is only a little older than him, he learns, fifteen to Whitley’s fourteen. Those big eyes make him look younger.

He stops getting annoyed at Oscar waking up at the first rays of sun when he realizes he could make his own breakfast at that time and not have to share it with anyone. Whitley spends at least a week trying to make eggs that were neither runny nor painfully salty until Oscar, in from an early run around the grounds, takes pity and starts his own omelet beside him. Whitley tries to make it seem like he isn’t looking, but then Oscar gives him his and takes over Whitley’s busted yolks.

In his head, farmers lived with no running water or electricity. They cranked a bucket of water from a well each day and bathed once a week. They couldn’t read because they didn’t need to. They ate weeds because they needed to sell everything else to live.

Oscar Pine makes a pretty good omelet, and Whitley realizes he was wrong.

Across from him, Oscar sits and grins. Knowing.

Whitley bites back an insult and says, “Okay. These are edible.”

“I’ll take that as a thank you.”

Whitley doesn’t deny it.

**·**

Oscar lived with his aunt, Whitley learns as he gives in, little by little, to his thirst for knowledge. He doesn’t remember his mom. His dad was a soldier who came home in an urn.

Whitley stills his dry, cracked hands on a laundry grate and bites his lip. Would Father be found so utterly destroyed they’d have to burn him rather than let Whitley see the body?

No, he tells himself. It can’t be.

He looks up at Oscar, his unaffected face, and feels guilt. thick and unfamiliar, weigh down in his chest. Father could be— _is_ alive. Oscar’s dad is not. “That’s a…difficult turn,” Whitley says.

“It was a long time ago.”

Whitley scrubs at the pillowcase a few times more before curiosity takes hold once more. “What was he like?”

“Smart. And hard-working. He wanted to make enough so I could go to one of those big schools instead of helping on the farm and teaching myself from his books.”

“Big schools? Like Atlas Academy?”

“Not a Huntsmen school. Dad said I was smart. He wanted me to be a, uh, an architect.”

“I see. And did you want the same?”

“I mean, yeah, but… I dunno, I never thought about anything else. I thought it’d be cool, and Dad was really eager about it, so…”

“Ah. Well, parents. I remember Father used to give me all these textbooks to study. How late did you have to stay up, reading?”

“Uh, not at all? I just read what I was interested in, whenever I had free time.” Oscar raises an eyebrow at him. “Did your dad teach you or something?”

“No. But he kept in close contact with my tutor. I got an eighty-four out of one-hundred on a statistics exam once. He yelled at her while I was right there! It was hilarious until he got to me.” Whitley chuckles and wrings out the pillowcase.

It’s a few seconds before Oscar says, “…Got to you?”

“Surely you know what I mean?”

But Oscar’s face tells him he didn’t.

Whitley holds the stare for a little while before his smile fades. He tucks his head down and tries not to think about the sting of his father’s hand on his cheek, the weight of his grip around his wrist.

**·**

The worst part of the cabin was how little there is to do in his spare time. Whitley and Oscar manage to clean all the linen and fabric in the cabin, even the pillows, although the creaky mattresses were a cause neither of them were willing to fight for. Cleaning the musty bed cloths was meaningful, if demeaning, but finishing that chore means one less disruption from the tedious game of waiting. Whitley sits around, trying to resist the temptation, before it gets the best of him and he is promoting himself from eggs to pancakes.

About thirty minutes later, Oscar’s dumping a bucket of snow from the outside onto the stove.

They stare as the fire dies down to a knot of an ember.

“Well. This appliance is obviously low quality. A replacement is for the better, honestly.”

“…Whitley, we’re all in hiding. Do you really think one of us can just march into the nearest town and get one?”

Whitley looks at Oscar. Oscar looks at Whitley.

“…How much can a stove cost? Five-hundred lien?”

“Whitley.”

“Or we can get fire dust to repair it.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how that works.”

“Well,” Whitley says, crossing his arms, “there are more than enough appliances for me to experiment with as we wait for the others to return. Shall I attempt baking a pastry? The oven’s still intact.”

They sneak into the distant village with the emergency card Qrow left for the cabin in Whitley’s tattered peasant pocket. Oscar tells him to stop clapping his hand over it, because losing it won’t be as bad as getting robbed when someone notices that’s where he’s keeping it. Whitley acquiesces, but he doesn’t admit that’s quite insightful, now that he thinks of it.

Years of economic studies roll to the front of Whitley’s brain. The village’s main export is likely lumber, and the amount of parents he sees with just two or three children suggests that trade is going well. He’s tempted to search for the mayor’s hut, or perhaps an elder, when Oscar seizes his wrist and gestures down the worn path, eyes so wide Whitley’s relieved he didn’t notice him flinching.

“An antique store,” he says.

Whitley’s face scrunches up, and he’s about to complain that such a small village isn’t likely to have one of those with such little foot traffic, but Oscars pulls him into a run.

Inside, they find statues and rusty weapons, teapots and theoretical maps of a prehistoric Remnant, books with peeling spines and signs for plays that have been out of production for decades now.

Oscar releases him and wanders, looking for something that Whitley knows he can’t help him with. When Whitley glances up from a set of organ keys, he finds Oscar at a table with a miniature city setup. Whitley stares, watches the odd look on Oscar’s face fade to the deep concentration Whitley has gotten used to seeing. His eyes are narrowed, face angular as he chews on the inside of his cheek, and when Whitley finds himself lingering on the way his bottom lip sticks out, he approaches.

And Oscar talks. About the era this set is likely modeled after, that it must be a harbor town, because the buildings are white and something about the shapes and how the doors and windows are positioned, but Whitley finds himself just listening to the quiet excitement mingling with his concentration. The storeowner comes over, and the way Oscar lights up when his theories are confirmed has some weight deep in Whitley’s chest lifting. He isn’t even aware that he’s smiling until his cheeks begin to ache.

They don’t get the set but Oscar carefully picks out and buys a pocket watch, then gives it to Whitley.

It’s the first gift Whitley has ever received outside the family.

He nods, puts it in his pocket, and, after a moment, tells Oscar it’s gorgeous.

They’re in the village until they realize there’s no fire dust for sale, let alone appliances, upon which they return to the cabin. They don’t see any footprints in the snow, so they’re still grinning when they make it to the door. Whitley even tells Oscar it wasn’t bad, spending time with him outside of chores or convenience, and then Weiss bursts out the front door to demand where they’ve been.

Father is better at lecturing. He tells Weiss and Qrow that much, then rolls his eyes when Qrow tells him they didn’t make the effort of bringing him with them to have him risk his life.

Then Weiss says, “We’re not in the city and you don’t get to be treated like a spoiled little prince anymore. It’s time to grow up!”

He almost lets it slide. Almost. “ _I_ need to grow up? Here I thought _I_ am the Schnee heir, by the sole virtue of not having a public temper tantrum.” With a cruel grin, he adds, “Or maybe, just like Mother, you realized it’s a man’s job to run the—”

Her arm whips at him, fast. Whitley’s almost impressed, after his head snaps back and he brings his hand up to his cheek, until he runs his tongue over the insides of his cheeks and finds that he hasn’t bitten into them.

Whitley already has a retort curled in his mouth, but Ren is front of him, facing Weiss, when he opens his stinging eyes. “What is _wrong_ with you?” he asks, and it takes a second for Whitley to realize the question isn’t directed at him.

“You heard what he said! He’s _always_ like this!”

“He’s a kid. He just lost both his parents—”

“No I _didn’t_ —”

Someone else pushes him back, firm but not forceful. Nora. “He doesn’t even have his Semblance,” she protests, “he’s no threat to you!”

Whitley’s face burns. He watches them argue, but his head is pounding and his face stings. He’s breathing hard, hot, trying to stay composed even though he can feel the flesh of his cheek going tender, and before he can break he turns his heel and hurries to his room.

He’s got his boots off just beyond the door which he kicks shut behind him, then climbs into his bunk, sitting with his legs tucked close to his torso, rubbing at his cheek with the butt of his palm.

He had thought that if the worst possible thing had happened, then at least no one would ever hit Whitley again. Being wrong is more humiliating than hurtful.

The door opens, eventually. Whitley tucks his face into his knees and turns his head to the wall. The person entering shuts the door behind them and rummages in Oscar’s bag by the floor. Whitley only glances up to look when they start climbing the ladder to his bunk.

Oscar sits with his legs dangling off the edge of the bunk. He still has his socks on, but they’re dotted with wet spots. Whitley should apologize for taking his boots off in their room instead of the cabin’s entrance.

Oscar has a tin between his palms. He twists it open. The scent of mint and wax wafts into the air as he sets the cap aside. Oscar dips his fingers inside, sheathing his fingers in that thick, yellowish substance.

“Come—ah, can you lean closer, please?”

Whitley does.

He can’t hide flinch as Oscar comes in closer, but all Oscar does is smooth the salve over his burning cheek. It acts as a cooling agent, and even though the worst of the pain is gone at the first touch, Oscar keeps rubbing it into his skin.

His eyes are gentle. Like he’s worried. Like he _cares_.

“I didn’t say thank you,” Whitley says, finally. “For the watch, I mean.”

“It’s—” Oscar’s gaze does that flickering thing again. Whitley waits for him to come back. His hand stills on his cheek. “I-It seemed very you,” Oscar finishes. His cheeks darken.

Whitley watches his freckles sink into that flush and takes a breath.

When he kisses Oscar, it’s more of a _thank you_ for following him. For not saying it’s his fault. For wordlessly treating him like a person, without all the dramatics pity earns someone like Whitley.

He feels Oscar exhale against him. Whitley swallows and pulls away from his still mouth, peeling away from his stiff hand, a rare apology at his lips when Oscar presses into him. Kisses him back, lips parted, nose bumping into Whitley’s. He moves so fast that Whitley’s bottom lip catches between their teeth.

Whitley shivers as Oscar breathes against him, uneven and damp. Oscar follows where Whitley clumsily guides them, gathering handfuls of the blanket on either of Whitley’s sides, lowering his body so close Whitley can feel Oscar’s body heat.

They both try to adjust the angle of their heads, only to have their noses crush together, then teeth clicking as each of them round out their lips to say _ouch_. Whitley breaks away, blinking slow, mouth hanging open.

Oscar’s face breaks into open concern, and he sits back with his hands clenched on his knees, whispers, “Sorry,” just as Whitley starts to laugh, breathy and soft.

And Whitley says, “It’s okay,” not even really aware he’s saying it. He presses his mouth closed slowly, feels his lips tingle together, and he decides it really is okay.

Later, when night falls – when Whitley is trying to fall asleep to the sound of Oscar’s slow breaths in the bunk below him – he can’t stop thinking about the way Oscar pinched his sides and how his eyes shined with fondness as Whitley giggled. He remembers the shape of Oscar’s mouth against his own, the smell of his breath, the sound of his heart that beats so fast.

All his life, Whitley thought he’d be all alone.

He doesn’t know what comes next. And for the first time, Whitley admits to himself that he’s a little excited. A little scared. And he feels so much right now that he doesn’t know what to do.

Whitley only knows that he’d do anything to keep that light glowing in Oscar’s eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> During the events of this fic I imagine Ozpin as this father figure who keeps picking up the landline while his kid is on the phone talking to their crush. He leaves as soon as he realizes what’s going on and has to try very, very hard to pretend he has no idea what’s going on.


End file.
